


Take the pain away

by IAmNotOneOfThem



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Swap, Chronic Pain, Disability, Disabled Character, Disabled!Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish!Crowley, Judaism, M/M, author has chronic pain and is totally not projecting onto crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 05:33:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19434934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotOneOfThem/pseuds/IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: Crowley had willed his serpentine body to take a more appropriate form for conversation. Face, arms, legs, fingers and toes, all there.What was also there, right from the beginning, was a deep ache in his limbs and spine.





	Take the pain away

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfiction in Someone knows how long, but I just had to write this. The many other fanfictions that deal with this topic made me want to write my own take on it.   
> I finished this in one sitting (my fingers hurt, but it was worth it).
> 
> Please note that I am not Jewish, but Maiasaura's HaSofer and the Jewish Good Omens community on tumblr has given me new headcanons, so I had to integrate Jewish!Crowley. If anything I wrote is wrong or offensive, please please let me know so I can change it.
> 
> Not beta-read.

Crowley is a snake.

It was hard to forget - with the vaguely humanoid body and whatnot - but he is a snake.

A _limbless scaled reptile_ _with a long tapering body_ and venomous teeth.

In fact, he was **_the_** snake, The Serpent, The Original Tempter, the Creator of the Original Sin.

Despite his humanoid appearance, there were tells, of course. His eyes, for one. No matter what form, they stayed the same – yellow, with slit pupils best suited for the night, sometimes golden depending on the lighting. That was easy enough to hide, once humans decided they didn’t like being blinded by the sun all that much, thank you, and invented sunglasses. In different variations, too, which Crowley found very convenient. Couldn’t saunter through the centuries always wearing the same thing, now could he (unlike another immortal being he knew, Crowley had _taste_ ).

Then, there were characteristics that showed up occasionally, in moments of high emotional turmoil or distress (or when he was quite spectacularly drunk). The forked tongue, a hiss that managed to shine through even in words without any sibilants, the occasional patch of black and red scales that grew along his spine. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

However, there was another thing.

🐍

To this day, Crowley doesn’t know what made him slither up the wall next to the angel. He had seen the celestial being a few times before, but always from the distance. Hard to miss, really, with the flaming sword and white ethereal wings and all that. It had been in Crowley’s best interest to stay out of reach of said sword if he wanted to get the job done without an untimely discorporation.

But with the sword gone and the Garden empty, well, curiosity had won over survival instincts and Crowley had willed his serpentine body to take a more appropriate form for conversation.

He’d taken the shape next to him, as well as his more or less unwilling and close-up inspection of human bodies (thank G-Satan for their sudden shame and wish for modesty), as a blueprint and just went from there. Face, arms, legs, fingers and toes, all there.

What was also there, right from the beginning, was a deep ache in his limbs and spine, but at the time, Crowley had sort of assumed it came with the whole set-up and ignored it.

The sudden rainfall was accompanied by a drop in temperature he had not experienced before – not that the rest of the world had, either, given how that storm was the very first in existence – and with that came a pang of pain that made him stumble in surprise. The ache had been unpleasant, sure, but not exactly painful, more annoying than anything, but now his body felt stiff and the ache had turned into something worse. As he found his footing again, something not unlike lightning shot through him, only to settle in somewhere in his thigh. Standing, Crowley found, hurt.

Aziraphale next to him seemed unaffected by the rain as he lifted a wing and allowed Crowley to step under it. It helped to be out of the rain, but the cold remained, and with it the pain and stiffness.

🐍

Eventually, as the rain subsided and the clouds dispersed, allowing a very grumbled sun to resume its business of heating up the sand, the pain dimmed to a more manageable level, but it didn’t disappear entirely.

At that time, Crowley assumed it would fade completely once he grew more accustomed to this particular form. It was, after all, a huge shift to go from limbless and practically boneless to having vertebrae, hipbones, arms, legs, and other bits and pieces. With time, he was sure, his body would forget it had once been a snake and then the aches would go1.

1That assumption was wrong.

🐍

It was only when earth ceased being inhabited approximately to 98% by animals, plants and two ethereal/occult beings2 that Crowley noticed a difference between him and most humans. Prior to that, his sample size3 would have been too small to draw proper conclusions.

2Not that percentages had been invented yet, nor had anyone gone through every single living creature on earth to conduct a census. The estimate was thus based not on actual facts; Crowley had simply taken the number of humans (read: Chavah and Adam) and deducted them.

3This, too, had not been invented yet.

There were many differences, of course, since he was in fact not human at all, but a demon and no-one else had eyes like his. Not that people cared much about something like that, in these days; no one blinked twice at the sight of yellow eyes with slit pupils, for which Crowley was quite grateful. Sunglasses had yet to be invented, like prejudice and witch hunts4, and so Crowley could walk through the streets (which weren’t yet streets like the ones of today, but more trodden-down paths between mud and clay buildings and tents) without a problem.

4Witch hunts, in this case, refer not to the search for and execution of alleged witches in the Middle Ages, but to the practise of condemning and wishing harm upon individuals different than yourself. More specifically, the insistence of superstitious people to attribute unusual characteristics, both mental and bodily, to evil forces.

Social problem, that is. Physically, walking had turned out to be quite the problem. The uneven, rough terrain beneath his feet made it even more difficult, not that Crowley’s body hadn’t managed that all by itself just fine. After a few minutes, his legs started to hurt, a feeling that only got worse as time went on. Whenever he could without attracting any attention, Crowley stopped; oftentimes, he took advantage of the many stalls lining the road and pretended to inspect the wares, when in truth he gave his legs a moment of relief.

Not that it did much good, since standing too hurt, but it was better than nothing.

It was during one of these rests that Crowley realised something. Only half-listening to the merchant who did his best to try and sell Crowley some fabric, Crowley’s gaze slipped past the stall and across the marketplace, briefly stopping on that person or another before moving on. He paused in his observations to watch as a handful of young children ran past, apparently playing some kind of game that involved one player trying to catch the others5.

5The game would in time become known as “tag”, presumably derived from the Scottish and Northern English dialect word ‘tig’, meaning a light tap or pat, which itself might be an alteration of the Middle English ‘tek’ of the same meaning.

The sight itself was nothing out of the ordinary and Crowley had observed children play this very game a few times before, but standing on aching feet with aching legs, aching hips, and an aching spine, the thought suddenly struck him that it must be different for these children. They didn’t look like they were in pain. They were laughing and yelling at each other, but not the sort of yelling one did when overwhelmed by any sort of negative emotion; besides, he couldn’t _feel_ any pain coming from them.

For a second, Crowley wondered whether the pain was something that came once a human underwent puberty (whatever had gone through G-D’s head when She implemented _that_?) and finished growing, but then he turned his gaze to the many adults walking about and extended his demonic senses.

There was pain, of course – human existence always came with some sort of pain, be it from their squishy, unhandy bodies or their fragile psyches – but not the kind of pain Crowley was feeling at this very moment, standing in front of a stall. There were elderly people who radiated with something similar to the feeling in Crowley’s extremities; their bodies, too, were aching, their spine bent, struggling to carry the weight of their shoulders and heads, the stiffness of their legs as they walked carefully, but it wasn’t the same.

Suddenly aware of the merchant staring at him expectantly, Crowley made a dismissive sort of hand gesture and resumed walking, stepping away from the stall and out of the merchant’s memory.

Funny how altering the mind of a mortal was easier than walking, something even toddlers could do.

Before, he had never paid much attention to the gait of other people, but now, the realisation still fresh in his mind, he observed, then compared. It became obvious fairly quickly that Crowley’s walk was unusual. Whereas most humans moved with a practised, yet unconscious ease, Crowley walked in a way reminiscent of the slithering of a snake. His hips did things that the humans’ did not; his spine was wrong, too, and his legs—

Crowley stopped in the middle of the road and allowed his hands to press against his thighs, trying to will the pain away. It stayed and intensified as he remained standing, almost like his legs were protesting loudly against the fact he was still standing upright and could he please sit down already, that would be much appreciated.

The revelation continued swirling around his mind, like a pinball being shot around the playing field by the two flippers at the bottom6, and he decided to listen to his body for once and turned to walk into the nearest tavern. The moment he sat down, the sense of relief was so great, he could have cried. But he was a demon, so he didn’t, and instead ordered a drink.

6Pinball machines would not be invented until the late 1700s, during the reign of Louis XIV.

🐍

The first time Crowley was discorporated and took his first step down in Hell in a while, part of him had hoped the pain would disappear together with his body. Of course, it was his curs- blessed luck that this wasn’t the case.

Just like it had been Above, after a few minutes of walking (whoever had done the interior design of Hell had gone for a labyrinthine layout of many corridors and long distances to cross getting from A to B and Crowley wanted nothing more than to find that bastard and have some words with them), his legs started to ache. The urge to scream thankfully got stuck in his non-corporeal throat, but he’d felt it nevertheless, and his mood soured even more.

At least down here, no one shot him confused glances because of his style of walking, because his spine bent and his hips twisted in a way neither should have done. Humans had become more perceptive and suspicious lately.

🐍

Over the years, Crowley had grown quite adept at discovering what made the pain worse and what kept it at that low buzzing level that allowed him to function normally.

No matter what he tried, the ache was a constant companion. Nothing got rid of it. No miracle, no discorporation, nothing. Resigned to forever be in pain, Crowley instead devised strategies to make life as bearable as possible.

Walking for more than a few minutes would make it become worse. Steep slopes or descents could go fuck themselves, for all he cared. Every now and then, he wondered whether G-D had invented hills just to spite him, but tended to quickly dismiss that thought. She had washed Her hands off him the moment he fell and became a Sheyd; plus, he was pretty sure hills had already existed before he vaguely sauntered downwards. Insofar as possible, he thus avoided any slopes. When that wasn’t possible, he walked as slowly as possible, taking his time, chalking it up to always wanting to be fashionably late and make other people resent having to wait for him.

Uneven ground made walking more difficult, so he rejoiced when humans started maintaining proper walkways and eventually invented asphalt.

Sitting was only marginally more comfortable than standing, but he discovered that sprawling a certain way alleviated the pain somewhat, at least until he had to stand up again. Once he took up sleeping, he was dismayed to find that it wasn’t quite as relaxing as humans had made it out to be. Whenever he found a position that was comfortable, it soon – sometimes within five minutes, tops, sometimes after enough time had passed for him to start dozing off – started hurting, so he had to find a new one. It was the kind of endless cycle that should have delighted him, but instead, he gritted his teeth and ignored the pain so he could sleep.

Most of the time, he woke up being in more pain than the evening before and had to devote a certain amount of time to get rid of the stiffness of his body before he could even attempt to stand up.

When canes came into fashion, at first, he was very happy to have something to take the weight off his legs, but after a while of using it, his arm started blaring instead. Not that he would ever admit to that. Better to be in pain and look fashionable than to stand out even more than he already did. Canes were soon replaced by cars, an invention that made him want to weep in joy. Horse-riding had never worked for him – horses seemed to instinctually know they ought to be afraid of him and once he’d got on their back and forced them into movement, the jostling and bumping about was pure agony. Same for carriages, though they were better than walking. Cars, on the other hand, were comparably smooth and only got smoother and steadier as progress marched on.

Had he been in the area at that time, he would have kissed Karl Benz right on the lips.

He’d tried every remedy the humans had invented for their own ailments, but nothing helped.   
Ancient Egypt treated pain that could not be attributed to a certain injury as being the influence of some sort of spirit or divine entity. He’d tried that once, but vomiting, sneezing and peeing had done nothing for him other than leaving him with a foul taste in his mouth and a headache, and he sincerely doubted any spirit could have invaded him in the first place.

Then, Crowley had developed a sort of addiction to opium – not that demons could technically become addicted to things like humans could, but he’d chased the short-term relief the drug afforded him with the gusto and desperation of a modern crackhead. Chinese traditional medicine was soothing, if occasionally weird, but also brought only brief breaks from the pain.

The Middle Ages brought religious connotations Crowley was absolutely not comfortable with, though his bearing of the pain would have made many a priest proud.

Whenever doctors, religious figures and common healers came up with a new solution to pain, Crowley tried it. Yoga, massages, progressive muscle relaxation, aqua aerobics, herbal teas – anything. In between his meetings with Aziraphale, he’d travelled the whole world, always in search, always disappointed.

The one medicine he took to with enthusiasm was alcohol. It didn’t make the pain go away, mind you, but with a certain level of intoxication came an inability to feel anything but the pleasant haze that fogged up one’s brain and made one forget the ache.

The hangover was a whole different story, but that pain at least he could miracle away.

🐍

If Aziraphale ever noticed anything, he never said so. Crowley prided himself on being an excellent actor, so he doubted Aziraphale was aware – the angel was clever, but he could also be incredibly stupid, and only saw what he wanted to see.

Had he known, though, the angel would probably believe the pain to be a sort of punishment, fitting for a demon who had turned his back to G-D.

Not that the thought had never crossed Crowley’s mind before, but even at his darkest, he had doubts. No other demon, as far as Crowley knew, felt the same. None of them walked like he did, for one, and demons loved to complain about everything so someone would have let something slip. If all demons were in constant pain, there wouldn’t be a need to keep it secret, after all. It would be a common fact of life, like the scent of sulphur and the lack of space to move and breathe.

So Crowley assumed it was unique to him, or at least something that no other ethereal/occult creature had to deal with. Other demons had amphibians, reptiles or insects perched on top of their heads. Crowley had a messed-up spine, too many vertebrae, and a funny gait. And it seemed his body was dead-set on remaining that way, as he could change everything about his appearance but the colour of his hair, his eyes and the serpentine fluidity to his physical shape.

The sort of chronic pain Crowley experienced on a daily basis appeared to be more common among humans, though the way ‘healthy’ people treated the chronically-ill throughout history made Hell look tame in comparison.

Humans had always been far more creative and destructive than both Heaven and Hell could have anticipated.

🐍

The warmth of the sun helped. The cold made it worse. Even more so if it was the kind of wet cold that was commonplace in England.

Figures he would choose to live there and not in a sunny place.

As it is, something7 kept him chained to England, even with its discomforts and terrible weather.

7This something, or rather someone, had blond hair, blue eyes and was prone to wearing terribly outdated tartan clothing that might once have been _in vogue_ , but was nowadays considered quite old-fashioned and quaint. This someone is also an angel and went by the name of Aziraphale, in case the description did not suffice.

Every meeting with Aziraphale, as infrequent as they generally were, was worth the months and years of pain he had to endure. Walking beside the angel was still painful, would probably always be, but the ache was pushed back to somewhere far in the back of his head, almost inconsequential and unimportant compared to the radiant warmth that surrounded Aziraphale and washed over Crowley’s skin almost like a caress.

It was easy to forget what he was, how his limbs ached and his bones groaned when Aziraphale smiled at him.

If it meant living in the cold, if it meant that he had to wake up every day stiff and in agony, so be it.

🐍

Crowley kept his eyes firmly on the back of the head of the person in front of him as the congregation took three steps back, then three steps forward, signalling the beginning of the Amidah.

The words on the page were blurred, but Crowley couldn’t tell whether that was because of his slit pupils (very much not suited to reading) or the pain he was in.

Today was a bad day. It was horribly cold outside, the sort of weather that slipped beneath your skin, wrapped around your muscles and bones, and squeezed. When he had woken up, he had, for several minutes, considered just staying in bed, but eventually lying down had begun to hurt, too, so he’d gritted his teeth together and gotten up. Even the car ride, despite his Bentley’s best attempts at driving smoothly and avoiding each and every pothole, had been pure torture.

The morning minyan soothed him on a metaphysical, spiritual level, but could only take the edge off the pain, and he found it difficult to focus through the silent prayers, though thankfully he knew the words by heart.

Standing hurt. He had to focus on each leg, willing them to stay still, as they wanted nothing more than to start shaking under the strain.

There was an elderly zayde a few rows in front of him, a little bit to the left. He looked ancient8, yet his feet were steady and though his back was hunched, he stood as if the very act was nothing worth any consideration. A flash of jealousy and bitterness went through Crowley as he finished his prayer and, in perfect harmony to the rest of the congregation, took three steps back and another three forward again.

8At least to other humans. However, compared to Crowley, who was in fact, a demon, the man’s 96 years of age seemed like the blink of an eye. Though, of course, mortals were beholden to a different standard than all celestial and occult beings, to whom anything below the thousands was considered young.

There was an old man, probably a great-grandfather already, and he was in better shape than Crowley, a being that was ageless and existed outside of time. Crowley’s body was young, but at the same time, he felt like he was a relict, a dinosaur9, fossilised to the point that every small movement cost concentration and was paid in pain.

Pain was a currency more widespread down below as any other. There was a certain irony to the fact that Crowley still had to pay the price, even up above.

9Which – as you, dear reader, are aware – did not really exist, but were a joke that has yet to be understood by anyone native to the earth.

Despite the aching and groaning of his bones, however, which had grown worse with every bow and every second of standing upright, Crowley left the synagogue more refreshed and in a better mood than before.

Had he been prone to doing so, he would have whistled as he walked up to his Bentley, which seemed to pick up on his mood and greeted him with a gentle vibration of its motor.

Perhaps Crowley would drive to that nice little kosher deli nearby and get some Rugelach. He even considered visiting Aziraphale, who had a sweet spot for Bimuelos and whose couch was marginally more comfortable than anything else in the world.

🐍

The very next day, Crowley received a summons.

At the edge of a graveyard, in the darkness of the night and with an ache in his body that was only partially familiar, he received the Anti-Christ.

🐍

Whoever invented heels and made them the standard attire for women belonged in the darkest and most disgusting pits of Hell.

Whoever made women’s clothing so stiff and uncomfortable also belonged there.

They should be forced to wear their inventions at all times and walk with throbbing hot pain coursing through their veins like lava.

🐍

Stress, Crowley knew, was one of the worst triggers for pain. He doubted there was any stress worse than realising you lost the Anti-Christ, the Apocalypse was near, and your best friend refused to run away with you to safety.

Not even the pain of Falling could compare to the sheer agony he felt as he stumbled into Aziraphale’s bookshop and realised, with horror and unimaginable grief, that the angel was gone.

The flames licked at his skin but for once, the heat gave no comfort. He felt cold. Empty.

Each step away from the shop was like having Holy Water injected straight into his limbs. His body was screaming, but his heart was screaming even louder and the pain didn’t even register, even as his feet became as heavy as cement and each movement as sluggish as if he was drowning in the Flood.

This time, not even the alcohol could take away the ache.

🐍

Everything happened so quickly after that – Aziraphale returned, the drive to the Airfield, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Satan –

And then Aziraphale was standing in the middle of Crowley’s flat, so completely out of place against the sharp and dark edges of the walls, and there was determination in his eyes.

Crowley reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand – a shiver ran up his arm and down his spine, barely registering amidst the numbness and pain of his muscles, which were wound as tightly as a boa constrictor squeezing the life out of its prey, but registering nonetheless – and closed his eyes.

It was at exactly the same moment as Crowley opened his –Aziraphale's – eyes that he realised his mistake.

The pain, it had followed him, like a bloodhound on the chase, and it felt wrong to subject Aziraphale’s body to such a feeling, to mistreat it like that. The muscles weren’t used to this sort of sensation and weren’t hardened to the point they felt like bones, but Crowley’s body, the body Aziraphale was currently inhabiting, _was_.

Opposite him, Aziraphale was standing stiffly, a look of discomfort on his – Crowley's – face. He looked down at his legs and reached out, thin fingers squeezing into a thin thigh. When Aziraphale lifted his head again, the question was written on his face.

“I should have warned you,” Crowley said quickly before Aziraphale could say anything. The words came tumbling out his mouth, even faster as he realised he sounded like Aziraphale – somehow, that made it worse. “I didn’t realise. I didn’t know if my body would… remember the pain when someone else inhabits it or if it’s just me.”

Aziraphale rolled his shoulders, a pinched expression briefly turning the corners of his lips down. “What is this? It feels like an echo, but even the echo hurts. My Grace cannot dull the pain and I cannot feel an injury.”

Crowley winced in sympathy. The pain he was feeling at this moment was probably worse, objectively, but he had had more than 6000 years to grow used to it. For Aziraphale, it was completely new. “There is no injury.” At Aziraphale’s confused look, Crowley sunk down on his couch – uncomfortable, unlike the one in Aziraphale’s shop _burned burned burned_ – and after a few seconds, Aziraphale did the same. The angel probably didn’t even notice how some of the tension seeped out of his body.  
“I’ve never found out why I feel the way I do. As far as I know, no other demon is in constant pain like I am, and it’s been there from the very beginning, back in the Garden.”

Aziraphale made a wounded sort of noise that made Crowley’s heart clench uncomfortably. “In the Garden? I never…” Aziraphale trailed off and furrowed his brows. “You stumbled. I thought you were taken off guard by the rain, but it was the pain, wasn’t it?” His face smoothed out and the look of confusion was replaced by one of concern. “My dear boy…”

Crowley shook his head. “I always just assumed it has to do with the shape. The few times I’ve turned back into a snake, it went away. Not completely. More like, it dulled. It’s difficult to feel the pain of your limbs when you have none. But in this form—“ He gestured to his body, currently occupied by Aziraphale. “—it’s always there. Gets worse sometimes. ‘s also the reason why I walk like that. Hips aren’t completely right, I think.”

It hurt to look at Aziraphale, see the pity and sympathy, and know it was for him; Crowley turned away, stared at the ground instead, hands clenched to fists despite the pain it caused him. “I tried everything. Ssssome drugsss—“ He stopped speaking, swallowed, and tried to get the hissing under control. It felt wrong, so wrong, to do that with Aziraphale’s mouth. “—some medication helped. Took the edge off. Alcohol is great, bathes everything in a hazssse, pain can’t get through that.”

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder. Even through the fabric of Aziraphale’s clothes, he could feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s grace sink into his skin. Unconsciously, he found himself sinking down into the couch and some of the tension eased away.

“You mean to tell me,” Aziraphale said quietly, more of a whisper than anything else, “that you’ve felt like this your entire life? For countless years?” Crowley dared to look up. He was surprised – no, shocked – to see tears glimmer in his serpentine eyes. Aziraphale had always been more open with emotions like that. “My dear boy, I… I cannot imagine what that must be like. I can barely stand the pain I am feeling right now. To imagine—“

“What you are feeling is probably just a remnant. Body’s so used to being tense and in pain, it doesn’t know how not to be.”

Aziraphale gasped. “This is only an echo, then? It can be worse than this?”

Crowley averted his gaze again. Part of him wanted to slink away, hide from the sympathy that was radiating from Aziraphale like light from a lamp. Another part, just as strong, wanted to bury his face in Aziraphale’s neck and press into the warmth there. Unable to formulate words, Crowley nodded, sharply, a jerk of his head.

For several moments – could have been seconds, could have been hours – both were silent. Crowley considered getting up and going to his bedroom, to brood and wallow in self-pity, but just as he started tensing his leg muscles to stand up, the hand on his shoulder squeezed ever so gently. Crowley’s head snapped to the side – the movement sent a flash of pain, gone as quickly as it came, from his neck up to his temple.

Aziraphale’s smile was watery and his eyes shimmered. Seeing his own face staring back looking _like that_ was somewhat uncomfortable, but Crowley wasn’t able to dwell on the thought for too long, as Aziraphale began to speak. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. I should have noticed. I never considered the possibility you might not be alright. Had I looked, I might have seen it. But I didn’t. I always thought your posture, the way you sit and sprawl, the way you walk, was on purpose.”

“Kind of is,” Crowley mumbled. “Walking all stiff like you hurts even more.”

Aziraphale grimaced. The pity in his expression made something in Crowley’s chest unfurl and suddenly breathing was just a tiny bit easier. “I’ve met many humans whose pain has no discernible reason,” the angel continued after a brief pause. Crowley could practically see the thoughts flash behind his eyes. “And I’ve seen how other humans treat those with chronic pain. How some doctors, even today, believe their patients are just making things up for attention, or that it’s all just in their heads. Worse, some medical and religious professionals honestly believed that disabilities and chronic pain are a punishment by God. As if those things are a punishment.”

The hand on Crowley’s shoulder tightened for a brief moment. For a second, the air was heavy with the smell of ozone, with the tension of heavenly fury threatening to break out of its fleshly cage. But then Aziraphale’s grip loosened up again and the air cleared. Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. “Just thinking about it, how someone could think a physical or mental handicap is a punishment, as if God would do something like that, upsets me.”

Crowley shook his head. “Humans have always been quick to condemn otherness. You should know that by now.”

Aziraphale sighed loudly and allowed his hand to drop back to his side. Crowley mourned the loss of his warm palms, the physical contact to his aura. “I know, I know…” He paused, presumably to get it back together, before he continued speaking. This time, there was a certain undertone to his voice, which Crowley couldn’t identify. “Why did you never tell me?”

Crowley opened his mouth, then let it snap shut with a click of teeth. After hearing Aziraphale advocate so strongly for those in a similar situation as him, Crowley’s fears seemed irrational, foolish almost. Of course Aziraphale loved all of Creation equally; of course, he didn’t love the ill and disabled any less. Of course, he wouldn’t fall into the same pattern of thinking as those very humans he just criticised.

Something must have shown through on his expression because Aziraphale’s face softened10. Gently, he took Crowley’s hands between his – had Crowley’s fingers always been this much thinner and longer than Aziraphale’s? – and squeezed. “I never did give you much reason to trust me with personal matters. I’ve always held you at an arm’s length and refused to acknowledge our friendship. Given how coldly I treated you, it is no wonder you wouldn’t share such vulnerability with me.”

10As much as possible while inhabiting Crowley’s body, anyway. If anyone could make the angular and sharp lines of Crowley’s face appear soft, it was Aziraphale.

Crowley shook his head, all without taking his eyes off their joined hands. Where their skin touched, head radiated outwards, shooting rays of warmth and something else through Crowley’s muscles and bones. He felt himself relax, the roaring pain dulling somewhat, until it became a background humming, like TV static.  
“It’s not your fault. I was…” He swallowed hard. “I was scared. Besides, there was nothing you could have done. I tried everything.”

Aziraphale pulled a face at that – as if he was personally offended by the very idea that there was nothing he could do to help – and pursed his lips. “But it is manageable? You are not… emotionally weighed down by the pain?”

Crowley shrugged with one shoulder. It didn’t look quite as nonchalant when Aziraphale’s body did it, but it served its purpose. “Sometimes. ‘s nothing I can’t handle. I’m not, you know, in danger of—“ He made a vague sort of gesture, but Aziraphale seemed to understand. “Some days it’s worse. Some days it’s just there, at the back of my consciousness. Best days are when it’s warm—“

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale interrupted. His grip on Crowley’s hands tightened. “I’ve heard of how cold and wet weather makes some people’s symptoms worse. What are you doing here in England, of all places? Wouldn’t somewhere warm be better? Spain?” Aziraphale frowned. “Perhaps not Spain.”

Crowley hesitated. There was only one answer for that and it wasn’t national pride or that sort of mishegas. No, there was really only one thing he could say, even if he didn’t exactly want to let any more cats (or snakes) out of the bag. The longer he took to answer the question, the more concerned Aziraphale looked. One of his thumbs started rubbing gently across Crowley’s knuckles.

Crowley’s brain short-circuited. Without thinking, he blurted out, “You.”

The angel next to him froze. After a moment of tense silence, he sought eye contact and gently prompted, “Me?”

Crowley nodded. If he were to look into a mirror, he would see resignation written across his face. In a moment, Aziraphale would draw away, put some distance between them. Perhaps he would even demand they switch bodies again. Perhaps death by hellfire would be preferable to staying anywhere near Crowley once the secret was out.

“What do you mean by that, Crowley?” Aziraphale was frowning again. “It’s not like I’m performing so many miracles that you need to be near me constantly to balance things out.”

“I…” Crowley tried to find the right words but came up blank. Aziraphale sat there patiently with a smile that was nothing but encouraging. Crowley took a deep breath. Even though he didn’t exactly need it, it was a human habit he’d picked up, something to do to try and calm down. It didn’t work.

“I want to be near you. Had you settled in the USA, I would have followed you there.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “You hate the USA.”

“So do you,” Crowley commented dryly, but his amusement faded almost immediately. “I’d have gone to the poles just to be with you.” When Aziraphale didn’t say anything – didn’t even move, not even a single breath – the words rushed out of Crowley’s mouth as if a dam had broken. “No matter how bad the day is, no matter how stiff my limbs or how painful every step, being with you makes it better. I… I can forget the discomfort, as long as you’re there. You’re… when you’re near, I feel warm.”

Unable to look at Aziraphale any longer, Crowley turned his head to the side and stared at the door. “Don’t make me say it, Aziraphale. You know how I feel.”

Suddenly, there were two fingers pressed against his chin. Gently, Aziraphale made Crowley look at him again – their faces were inches apart, so close, he could feel the breath escape Aziraphale’s lips and ghost across Crowley’s skin.

“I don’t,” the angel whispered softly. “You’re a hard book to read, my dear. Please. Humour me.”

Among humans, there was a saying: Actions speak louder than words. At this moment, Crowley couldn’t think of anything to say – how to put millennia of love, of a different kind of aching, into words? Impossible. A fool’s errand. Crowley’s gaze flickered to Aziraphale’s lips. Could he… could he dare? The fear and nervousness seized him, knocked the breath from his lungs. No, he couldn’t dare. He—

Thin lips were pressed to the corner of his lips. Crowley choked, surprised, as Aziraphale leaned back again. Serpentine eyes met blue. Aziraphale smiled and squeezed Crowley’s hands, even as a blush turned his cheeks pink11.

11Later, once he was back in his own body, Crowley would reflect on how weird it was to see himself blush. But that was a thought for another day when his brain functioned properly again.

“Please tell me if I interpreted this wrong.” After a few seconds, Crowley’s body gave a full-body jerk, then he shook his head so vigorously, his neck hurt. “Good.” Aziraphale let out a long sigh of relief. “Good. Your reaction worried me—“

“It was…” Crowley wet his lips. Considered different words, all with the same basic meaning, but different connotations. “Unexpected. I never thought you…”

Aziraphale’s blush deepened. It clashed horribly with the colour of his hair. “I never thought I would, either. I was scared. What would happen if we were… discovered. What they would do to you. I couldn’t…” He shuddered. “It was easier to make myself think I only loved you like I love everything in Creation. The sort of general, unspecified and all-encompassing love of an angel. And I didn’t know if you…”

Crowley felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips. “I do.”

Even in Crowley’s body, Aziraphale’s smile lit up the whole room. He glowed, both figuratively and literally, a soft shine that washed over Crowley and settled on him like a warm wool blanket. Only that this blanket went deeper and wrapped around every aching muscle, every spot of pain. It didn’t make the pain go away. Crowley was still aware of it, but it was an awareness only, a passive sort of knowledge that it was there. Unconsciously, he leaned closer, seeking warmth like a snake that slithered up a sunlit rock. Bony arms wrapped around him; Crowley tucked his head underneath Aziraphale’s chin.

“I’m sorry I added to your pain,” the angel murmured, “and that I renounced you, time and time again. Once we’ve dealt with our respective employers and once we have switched back, there is nothing that could stop me from remedying that situation. We’re on our side now, Crowley. And I’ll do everything in my power to help alleviate the pain.”

Crowley, once again unable to find the proper words, just shuffled closer. Enveloped by Aziraphale’s arms, Crowley allowed his eyes to fall closed and a smile to creep onto his face.


End file.
